Slasher Slash
by MetaphoricallySane
Summary: 'SAW' Jigsaw Hoffman slash with slash because I can. If playing by the rules means having no emotions, Jigsaw will break his own rules.


**Slasher Slash**

Hoffsaw

(SAW)

_Warning: this is slashy in every sense! I mean, seriously, this is pushing the limits for even me!_

Hell knew how far they'd come. Enemies, partners, crazy freakin' lovers... No, not even that. Master and apprentice, that was all. Thank fuck for that.

In their line of work, emotion and attachment wasn't an easy option.

Mark held the blade firmly in his grip as John almost knocked him unconscious against the thick metal wall, the clanging ringing through his mind as his hands wove up to his neck. When John had said he liked it rough...

The razor glinted in the dim, flickering light. Their latest test subject had failed, and now bled out across the floor, her neck snapped clean off, her stomach half cut into. Retrieving the blade had been Mark's first thought.

And he still didn't know if that was right or wrong. He gasped for breath, trying to get away - there was a fucking dead body right there! "Not now," he hissed. "Surely you understand the police-"

"Don't know she's here," Jigsaw cut in, his eyes flaring with lust and an anger that terrified the life out of Hoffman. Suddenly the older man tipped his neck slightly. "Do it."

Mark looked at the bloody blade, thinking he couldn't possibly mean-

"Scar me. You've done more damage in other ways."

The ordering tone of his voice left Hoffman almost stammering. He couldn't just- no!

Jigsaw jolted him, his head thumping back to the wall but he leaned closer to steady his apprentice. He lowered his voice and growled in his ear,

"Do you have what it takes?"

Those words sent shivers down the detective's spine like it always did as every Game started, but now he could feel his own blood pulsing through him like he was the one in the trap.

Worst of all, he fucking loved it.

"Do I have a choice, Jigsaw?" he played along, trying to hide that desperate tremble from his voice. Dead body. Right there. Right. There.

He smiled, his expression brightening to John once more. "Not this time."

Their lips met in ravenous desire, tugging at one another, nipping, and suddenly the reek of death was irrelevant. Every scrape of the blade on his neck and John's knees buckled, pressing into Mark even harder and tangling their tongues closer and closer, needing his contact, needing this… just _this_. Blood trailed down his neck, slipping softly along his skin, proving he was alive, he was real.

Almost guilty, Mark broke the kiss and drew his tongue to John's neck, cleaning him, desperate for that metallic tang of blood, lacing his tongue crimson until he found himself addicted, addicted to blood, addicted to the feel of his flesh, addicted to John.

John gripped at his apprentice's hips, willing him to slow down while at the same time his mind was going into hyper-speed, as with his heartbeat. He leaned into Mark's lips, clenching his jaw as the pain was released, drawn from him, like he was being taught a lesson. Maybe Mark wasn't so timid.

Maybe he'd trained him _too _well.

Suddenly he pushed Hoffman back off of him, leaving him dazed against the wall, still licking splatters of blood of his lips.

"Is this about the blood or about the purpose?" John scolded, although truth be told- no, no, he wasn't into vampirism… was he? Fuck, he didn't even know; this had never happened before…

"Sorry," Mark apologised, drawing a few steady breaths to calm himself, the blood lust coursing through his mind. He knew it wasn't healthy. But fuck it, he had heard John's frantic whispers of his name, his curses… even if John hadn't.

"Play by the rules, Mark," John warned, and once again that insanity of the Games crept into his eyes, his pupils dilating, he heartbeat slowly to a controlled thumping like poundings on a door. His hands fought for Mark's belt, keeping watch on that devious glint in his apprentice's eyes, thinking he could read his actions; he had studied the human mind enough-

Mark slapped his hands away, grabbing his master's shoulders and pulling him closer, this time less aggressively because he just couldn't do it. No, this was wrong. He had feelings. Fuck, he had feelings _for John. _With one hand he ran his fingertips across the gashes, making John wince through the kiss, but he relaxed.

"Mark," he hissed, pushing away with a force that seemed too strong for the aging man, "play by the fucking rules."

"Fuck the rules, I-"

John threw him back again, and then pointed behind him without turning. "That's what happens if you don't play by the rules. If you won't play the Game for yourself play it for those who care about you."

As Mark watched the blood pooling around her beginning to slow its seeping the light caught her still open eyes – still pleading, still begging, still alone. He looked back to John. "Those who care about you?" he whispered, trying to see something, anything in those cold dark eyes.

He almost smiled. "Yes. Now shut up."

Mark really didn't have a choice as John gripped his shoulders and in truth kissed the fucking life out of him, leaving him gasping for breath and gripping at whatever he could find of John, razor blade held so tight that it cut into his own hand, but he didn't care. His hand was hot and sticky, but so was his whole body; he was sweating and panting as John dragged off his jeans, his nails scratching along his thighs and teeth nipping at his lips and leaving his leaning back to the wall so he didn't collapse.

John had such firm, confident, stable hands, trained on all pressure points and all those little places that would leave Mark powerless, if not dead. And it was something about that danger, that every-lying threat of death which made Mark keep on playing his Game, no matter what.

With one hand the master pressed his apprentice's hands above him, clenched to the wall, and with the other he swiped the blade, watching Mark's reaction with intense interest, watching his throat bob as he gulped, his eyes plead slightly, but neither for nor against his plans. Mark was always loyal, always willing, always around…

_No, _Jigsaw scolded himself._ Don't form emotional attachments. You have a purpose, as does he. We're here for the Game. And of course, this, but this is all part of it._

…_Have I put myself in a trap?_

Dismissing the thought, he wished Mark would cut him again, take away the attachment, make him resentful and old and learned once more. But there was no escaping this trap, the trap that lay behind the oceanic waters of Mark's eyes. Oh, how they had brightened since he quit drinking… John had saved his life, he knew, and in doing so he may have saved him own.

_Stop it._

He dropped to his knees, still holding Mark but by his hips now, not daring to let him go. He scratched purposefully, the razor catching and dragging along his skin, drops of blood swelling to the surface and slipping down, down, joining the next droplet and the next and smearing as John cut and slit and Mark tolerated, his whole body clenched but still completely trusting John with whatever he was doing. There had to be a reason.

It took what felt like hours of pain to push through, his arousal still begging for attention but he just held with it; John's breath so close to him was more than enough for now.

Once satisfied John leant in, kissing up the inside of Mark's leg so freakin' delicately it hurt as Mark almost pleaded for him to hurry up – he couldn't take it much longer, the throbbing, the need for John's hand or mouth or even- _or even the blade, fuck it._

Blood traced Jigsaw's lips as he looked up to see his apprentice biting his lip and murmuring, "Please, please…"

"Always polite," he whispered to himself, drawing too many conclusions he already knew.

He teased around the tip of Mark's tight boxers, strained in restraint and already somewhat damp and he felt his heart race again before he carefully eased them away, all too fucking slowly, and Mark cried out a desperate, "John, please!"

He paused, his tongue curling in his mouth with lust but there was one last thing. "Play the Game, Detective Hoffman."

Mark pushed his head back to the wall, pushing his hips forward slightly, scratching his nails on the metal to stop himself from taking care of the problem on his own.

"What do you want from me?" he pleaded, not realising that he was already falling into John's trap. "Please, just-"

"Who am I, Mark? Say it."

He couldn't stand this, there was too much aggravation, too much temptation, and his own arousal was driving him insane by this point, like the sound of his own nails on the metal was grinding through him with a need for it to end. "Fucking Jigsaw, you're fucking insane, just… FUCK!"

He flinched and struggled as at last Jigsaw seized him, stroking him with the blade as he yelped out and tried to move but it was all get and he knew… fuck, he knew nothing.

And fuck it all if he didn't want to me taught.

"Jigsaw, you fuck, you fucking…"

His breathing grew more and more ragged as the metal was replaced with lips, and he suddenly couldn't even speak as he watched his master take him fully into his mouth and close around him, sucking hard and slowly and he was trembling and shaking and gripping Jigsaw's hair, clinging to him, begging him, yelling his name over and over and he couldn't even feel the pain anymore, just this extreme shock of pleasure jolting through him until he simply couldn't bare it any longer and he could hardly breathe and fuck it all if he knew what he was saying, but he didn't care.

Actually, he did. As he'd just fucking admitted.

"Fuck… fuck…" he managed as he leaned forward, spent and tired and still none the wiser. John just looked up at him, a smug smirk resting across his wet lips.

"You should listen to yourself as you talk," he advised, and then stood, turned, and walked away.

Mark blinked a few times, dazed and confused and half naked and eyes suddenly drawn to the spying eyes of the dead body that had just seen the whole thing. He tried to think what his master had meant, but his mind was blank, and so he caught his breath and pulled his trousers back up – only a little more comfortable than his before situation. The cuts stung, but right now his priority was catching up with John, seeing where they were heading so he didn't get left behind. He stumbled, uncomfortable as pain and blood soaked through him but desperate to find his master.

In the other room he was leaning against the wall, grinning to himself, his heart still racing. Mark was right, fuck the rules. If attachment was a bad thing it was a lesson he would have to learn the hard way. When Mark caught up with him they just watched each other for a moment.

"You… should clean that leg up," John suggested, eying the blood stains.

He nodded in agreement, sat on a crate and tugged off his jeans, making the most horrible slapping noise as they clung to him, soaked crimson, and threw them to the floor. Once more John found it hard not to stare, but as soon as Mark began to clear the smudges and read the words, he turned away, his cheeks reddening.

A Jigsaw mark, with the words 'I love you too' scratched underneath.

Mark couldn't care less that his jeans were ruined.


End file.
